Scattered Poppies
by madame.alexandra
Summary: On Veterans' Day, the year after Jenny's death, Gibbs decides to continue a tradition she held very close to her heart.
1. In Flanders Fields

In honor of those who have served, who do serve, and who will serve.

* * *

**_Veteran's Day/__Armistice Day  
November 11th_**

**_The eleventh hour, of the eleventh month, of the eleventh day._**

* * *

_In Flanders Fields the poppies blow  
Between the crosses, row on row,  
That mark our place; and in the sky  
The larks, still bravely singing, fly  
Scarce heard amid the guns below._

_We are the dead. Short days ago  
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow  
**Loved and were loved**, and now we lie  
In Flanders fields._

_Take up our quarrel with the foe:  
To you from failing hands we throw  
The torch; be yours to hold it high.  
**If ye break faith with us who die**  
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow  
In Flanders fields_

_-John McCrae [on World War I]_

* * *

_And now the Torch and Poppy Red  
__We wear in honor of our dead._

_-Moina Michael [response poem]_

* * *

_*proceed to next chapter for a story in which Gibbs honors the veterans, and a woman he loved and lost. _


	2. Scattered Poppies

_a/n: A veteran's day piece that focuses on Jenny's love for her father, and Gibbs' understanding of that love as a serviceman and a man who loved Jenny herself. _

* * *

November 11, 2006  
1 year after Jenny Shepard's Death  
13 years after Jasper Shepard's Death

* * *

From an old veteran in a World War II Marine cap, he bought a bouquet of poppies, and one of those little American flags with a piece of thin Old Glory cloth stabled to the sturdy, light wooden staff. He saluted his brother-in-arms, shook his hand, and left with a gruff _thank you_ and a nod of mutual understanding—there wasn't much to say; servicemen understood other servicemen implicitly.

It wasn't to Arlington National that he was headed, nor to one of the war memorials—but to Rock Creek Cemetery; it wasn't his wife and his daughter's graves that he sought, for as much as he loved them, and missed them—he spent hours on the old weather-beaten log in front of their tombstones, and today was not their day.

It was a bitterly cold November this year, but the winters after a loss always seemed particular frosty to him. Though it was late in the day, the dewy ice on the ground had barely thawed, and he was wary of his footsteps as he trudged through the silent cemetery, his eyes sharp, alert—searching.

He didn't quite remember where it was; he had, after all, only been here once before.

She had always disappeared on this day in November, for as long as he could remember—even in Europe, she had gone off the grid for two days, and even in the face of his fury she had refused to divulge her whereabouts—and he had never known, until finally, last year, he gave upon and on November eleventh, he simply had McGee trace her blackberry.

It had been after the CIA shut down her obsessive vengeance for Rene Benoit; months after they had told her to quiet her discontent and still her violent hand—and he had found her here, finally, sitting in front of the grave—

He spotted it up ahead; a simple grey obelisk beaten by weather and faded. Scattered before it where so many little flags just like the one tucked in his coat pocket—though these were muddy, frayed, torn—some little wooden staffs were missing their flags all together.

There were twelve such flags stuck significantly in the ground, and last year—when he'd followed her here—she had been picking the petals of poppies and scattering them, petal by petal.

_Jasper Shepard, frmr. Colonel. United States Army. Beloved Father.  
Taylor vs. Kentucky  
U.S. Supreme Court_

There had been angry, yet resigned way to the manner in which she threw petals on his grave, and he had watched her in silence—until finally, he had sat down beside her, and her lack of movement told him she knew he had been there all along.

"_They needed someone to blame," she had said, her voice hollow. "It's embarrassing, for the Pentagon to lose an arsenal."_

He had listened.

"_They stripped him of his honors, his titles. I wasn't allowed to bury him in Arlington. I wasn't allowed to bury him as a colonel," she had gone on, in that same hollow, angry dull tone. "They labeled him a traitor, a Benedict Arnold, and then they took his benefits, and I lost the GI bill, and my health insurance."_

He had watched the little flags wave, and the petals swirl, and stared at the inscription, trying to make sense of it.

"_I buried him alone," she choked. "No twenty-one guns, no flag. His friends—abandoned him." _

He had known silence was always better than empty platitudes, and so he had reached out and rested his hand on the back of her neck, and she had leaned back into it, forgetting for a moment how broken they were, and how awful the world had been to them since Paris.

"_I can't vindicate him," she whispered, tears glittering on her lashes. "These years, all my work, and I can't clear his name—because they still want him to bleed from the bullets of their mistake."_

He had stroked his hand through her hair.

He had asked gruffly:

"_This is where you went, on November eleventh? In Paris?"_

She answered with a mere nod, and her jaw had tightened—be he hadn't admonished her—he didn't have the heart, the energy, or the right. It seemed senseless, a manic thing to do, but somehow—he understood.

He had nodded at the tombstone.

"_What's it mean?"_

"_It's the U.S. Supreme Court case that mandated 'innocent until proven guilty'," she had burst out. "And they—presumed him guilty!" _

She had cried then, really cried—and he thought it was because she was exhausted, drained from it all—from years of chasing these demons, and finally getting them in her crosshairs, and having the same people who disgraced her father's good name and changed her life forever yank her rifle away as she was about to pull the trigger.

He had murmured:

"_Jen."_

She had just fallen silent, tears freezing on her face, and her eyes had gotten as read as the poppies she was scattering on the grave.

"_I bring him the flag he never got," she whispered finally, her voice raw with cold and defeat. "If ye break faith with we who die," she murmured, stricken. _

He had recognized it—recognized her quoting that devastating, sad poem._  
_

Something had possessed him to curl himself around her on the cold, November ground in that cemetery last year. He'd slipped his legs around her, and hugged her to him, holding her until she was done throwing poppies, and done crying, and she just sat there.

He could feel the sadness in her bones, and the heartache on her skin, and he believed her father must have been innocent of what he was accused—and he was angry for her, suddenly, because this man's sacrifice, and this man's toil and love of country, was ignored on this day because of the petulance of bureaucracy.

He had kissed her on the crown of her head, and rested his chin on her shoulder.

He stood here now, where he had sat with her last year, and he considered the grave—the twelve flags, the grassy knoll beneath the stone—and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, and wishing she were here again. It hurt him to see her in pain, but coming here, and finding the grave bare—it pained him more.

He sat down, crossing his legs, and began to tear petals off the poppies, and litter them on the grave. He set his jaw, and grit his teeth, and ignored the cold, and he focused on scattering the poppy petals, honoring the fallen, and thinking of that godforsaken poem.

The poppies, he tried not to remember, were so close to the colour of Jen's hair.

_Loved and were loved, and now we lie…_

He knew that with Jen died the last hope of Jasper Shepard's exoneration, and it had struck him coldly, in the middle of the night—that he couldn't bear the thought of no poppies on the grave, and of the little flags stopping at twelve—and as he scattered the last of the petals, and pierced the frozen earth with the thirteenth flag—this was the thirteenth year of her father's death—he swallowed hard, and bowed his head.

He would keep this tradition of hers, to honor the veterans that no one would remember, the ones who had fallen, who had made mistakes, and were remembered _for_ their mistakes, and not there accomplishments.

This was what he could do for her, an echo of how much he had cared, and how incapable he had been of telling her—he could make sure he gave the Colonel his flag, and he could scatter poppies the colour of her hair, so as not to break faith—and to ensure that father and daughter could rest in peace.

* * *

Thank you to all who have served, who are serving, and who will serve; in every country, not just my own.

* * *

_-alexandra _

_story# 172_


End file.
